women."

"Communicate. Communicate. There are a million ways to communicate. Michelangelo communicated, Bach, Beethoven, yes, Elvis Presley communicates. Hemingway, Martha Graham, actors, dancers, even a baby communicates!"

"But speech ..."

"Speech is the least dependable method of all. Few people can explain their love, their pain, their innermost feelings in words. And often a man speaks his thoughts, and having spoken them, finds he really thinks the opposite. No, this is second-rate expression and my opinion of you has not been altered by your feeble argument."

The other fellow's thoughts came over the wall, pounding against Bart's sub-conscious. "You consider yourself a man of great intelligence," it went on, "but your lack of imagination makes you less than mediocre. And as for your mind-power, well, you see you cannot cross my mental barrier."

"That's not entirely conclusive. There may be a catalyst here in this area which works in conjunction with your thought-processes and not mine. You're familiar with conditions here, while I only know the earth."

"You are hardly a challenge to me. However, to satisfy you that you have practically no control, let us make a test on your home ground."

"All right. You propose the test."

"Let us see ... if you can re-enter your former body while I am willing you to stay here, on the other side of that wall."

"Ahah. You're trying to trick me."

"I knew before I proposed my plan you would make exactly that excuse in order to escape my challenge. Even in excuses you lacked imagination."

"Okay, it's a deal." Bart was mad. "Start concentrating. I'll show you the power of my mind, both now and after I resume that shell." Bart was furious. He tried to leave the place by the wall. He seemed stuck. There were waves like laughter vibrating against the glass. Bart strained and saw that he had come away a little. He tried again and again. There was a little more distance gained. He tried to build the picture of the operating-room in his mind and while he was doing this a flash of Vivian exploded his mind. With that quick image, he felt himself free to drift downward.

There indeed was the hospital. Bart hurried to the operating-room, hovering near the ceiling light, watching the operating team below.

"He's gone, doctor." The anesthetist looked at Jonas. "Respiration's stopped altogether."

No, thought Bart. Don't close me out now.

"Let's open the chest and massage the heart."

Yes. Yes.

"I think it's futile, doctor."

"We can try."

Good old Jonas. Bart floated to the table and forced himself into the shell which lay white and unmoving under the penetrating light from above. It wasn't easy, Bart tried to move the heavy hand, but it was quite numb.

"Not a thing. Might as well quit."

Holsclaw's in a hurry. Damn him.

"I'll massage a little longer."

Bart pushed at the leaden eyelid. No go. Come on, come on. He felt a convulsive chill, a throbbing in his head.

"I'm getting a pulse." Jonas' voice was excited.

Bart knew there was a searing pain in his throat, but shutting it out of his consciousness was the steady, thumping beat of his own heart.

THE END